


Glimpses of the Past

by Stine



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, Spinner Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stine/pseuds/Stine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baelfire remembers his childhood. A series of vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A small gift

He is lying in bed, his belly full of the stew papa cooked for him, warm in the cocoon that papa made for him as he tucked the blankets around his body. He is not tired yet, although he has been playing outside most of the afternoon. Papa has told him a bedtime story, Bae’s favourite, the one about the youngest brother who didn’t inherit anything from his father but got to marry the princess in the end. Papa has told it twice, making all the different voices, but Bae is still not sleepy. He doesn’t want to listen to the story again, either, so he plucks at the threads of his blanket, while he watches his father. His father’s prominent cheekbones and nose cast shadows on his cheeks, and his skin has taken a golden hue from the fire. Bae likes papa’s face, even when it looks tired and drawn, just like now. Papa looks up and his dark brown eyes are warm.

“Still not tired, son?” He asks.

Bae shakes his head and papa smiles. He breathes in, holds it, and lets the air out in a long gust. His shoulders sag down. Papa looks down, and when he looks up again there’s a small sparkle in his eyes, the one that makes his face livelier. Bae likes that.

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. Are you ready to make deals, son?”

Bae’s eyes widen. Only grown up men make deals. He nods, gravely.

Papa smiles again.

“Alright. Here’s the deal: I give you your name day’s present tonight and you...”

“Really, papa? That’s great!” Bae cannot help himself. That’s the best news he’s had in _years_. His name day is two weeks from now. It’s a lifetime to wait, and papa is saying he can have his present _now_. That’s the best news in like, _ages_.

“Ah, ah, ah,” says papa, lifting a long finger and tapping Bae’s nose with it. “You have to listen to the whole deal before you agree.”

Bae quietens.

“As I said, I give you your present right away, and you promise to go to sleep, right after that. Hm?  How does it sound?” Papa’s not even finished his question when Bae’s already nodding vehemently. He wants his present _now_.

“Alright,” says Papa, offering his hand. They shake on it. Then Papa gathers his staff and gets to his feet.

“Close your eyes,” he commands.

Bae plans on peeking through his eyelids. He has been trying to find where Papa keeps things for a long time. Papa is really, really good at stowing things away. He keeps small surprises for Bae hidden all over their house, but Bae never finds them.

Papa walks towards the fireplace and suddenly turns around.

“No peeping,” he says seriously.

How could he have known that Bae was watching him under his eyelids? He must have eyes on the back of his head!  Perhaps it is magic? Bae closes his eyes tightly.

He listens carefully, but cannot locate the precise spot in which Papa seems to be rummaging for something.

“Not peeking yet.”

Then he listens, with growing eagerness, as Papa’s cane taps closer and closer. Papa sits down. The cot dips a little under his weight.

“Put your hands forward. Palms up.”

Bae extends his hands, and receives something small and soft. He touches it. It seems like one of the coils of thread that Papa takes to the marketplace. Bae opens his eyes, and feels a little disappointed. It is one of the spools. He frowns. Why would Papa give him one? He had always been attracted to them, being so white and so soft, but he had always been told he couldn’t play with them, for he would get the thread dirty and they wouldn’t be able to sell them to buy clothes and food. Now it has been a long time since he has longed to play with them. He doesn’t think about the smooth, fluffy, white spools anymore. He doesn’t even get near the basket that holds them. He is all grown up now. He is almost _six_.

He turns the spool in his hands, and then he discovers it is not a normal spool. The thread is tightly wound up around it, like the other ones, but the end is not simply looped to one of the strands to hold it in place. It is tied to one of the ends of the spool, and a length of it is left behind, a small knot tied to the very end. Bae looks at the other side, and discovers the felt ears, the eyes, the straw whiskers sewn into the wool. The spool is not just a spool, it is a mouse!  The end of the thread is its tail. Bae turns the mouse on its belly and discovers the tiny felt paws.

“Happy name day, son,” says his father, quietly, and Bae knows he has made it for him.

Bae feels as if his face might split in two, he is smiling so hard. He rises from the bed, and gives his father a tight embrace. Papa laughs, holds Bae in his arms. Then Bae lies down again, the mouse cradled close to his chest.

“You have to give it a name,” says Papa.

Bae looks at the mouse, the soft, brown, felt ears, the dark eyes sewn in black thread, the long whiskers. He decides the mouse is small, but quick and smart. It must be loved by everyone. He knows just the right name.

“Alvin.”

Papa’s eyebrows rise up in wonder.

“Alvin?” he repeats.

Bae nods solemnly. Papa smiles.

“That’s a good name, son,” he breathes.

“Well, now,” he continues, in a lighter mood, taking the mouse from Bae’s hand. He looks intently at its face. “What do you say, little Alvin. Are you tired?”

The mouse turns around, looks at Bae.

“Aye, I’m very tired. I’ve been playing outside the whole afternoon,” it says in a high-pitched voice.

Bae can’t stop giggling. Papa is the best at making voices.

Papa turns the mouse, until it’s looking at him again.

“Are you cold?”

“Aye, I’m very, very cold.”

“Do you think you can find a warm nook around here?”

He tilts the mouse, so it looks pensive.

“Hmmm...” says the mouse. “Perhaps... perhaps in this little bed?”

Suddenly, Papa ducks the mouse under the covers and tickles Bae’s side with its nose. Bae laughs, wriggles, while Papa continues speaking in the mouse’s voice.

“Aye, aye, here’s warm and dark, and nice, one only has to burrow a little deeper...”

Bae squirms, and screams in laughter, and holds his stomach. Tears are running down his cheeks.

There’s a cold gust of wind, and the door closes.

“Oh, Rumpelstiltskin. Sometimes you’re so ridiculous...”

Papa freezes, takes his hand from under the covers, as if burnt. Mama gets closer, caresses Bae’s hair out of his forehead, gives him a kiss and with a few, deft movements, arranges the blankets around him. Bae feels under the blankets, finds Alvin and holds it to his chest.

“What’s this?” Mama lifts the covers and sees Alvin.

Papa swallows.

“It’s my name day gift,” says Bae. “Papa gave it to me.”

Mama stares at Papa, who is looking down at his hands. Bae clutches Alvin tighter.

“Do you like it?”

Bae nods.

“Well, then,” Mama covers him up to his chin, pets his hair. “Go to sleep, Bae. It’s late.”

She turns around and goes to the fireplace, lifts up the kettle and hangs it on the hook above the fire.

His father lingers by his bedside, slowly rubbing his thigh.

Bae lifts Alvin a little, so its nose is poking out of the blankets. It will be able to breathe, but it will still be warm during the night.

Papa looks at him and smiles. The smile only curves one side of his mouth. It does not reach his eyes. He looks drawn and tired once again.

“Close your eyes, son,” he sighs. “Mama’s right. It’s late.”

Bae complies. After a while, Papa picks up his staff, rises.

 

 

Later, he hears them fighting in hushed tones.

“You gave him a spool, Rumpelstiltskin?  A _whole_ spool of your finest thread? What were you thinking? ”

“It’s his name day, Milah...”

“But that’s almost a piece of silver!”

“It’s alright...”

“No, it’s not alright. It’s almost winter. Bae needs new shoes, a new tunic. This shawl is too thin... There are smarter ways to use our money.”

“I’ll work longer hours...”

“Aye? And what do you propose we eat next week?”

“We’ll get by.”

“Really? Not thanks to you.”

There is a brief silence.

 “It’s my son’s name day. And I will give him whatever pleases him best,” Papa hisses, in venomous tones. Bae cringes. Papa must be really, really upset.  He almost never uses that tone.

There’s a silence, and something thuds hard on the table. Mama must have risen, for Bae can hear the swishing of her skirts, a soft thump as she turns the covers of her own bed.

“Alright,” she says. “But you figure out how to buy him warmer clothes.”

Bae listens attentively at the sounds she makes while undressing and getting in bed. Then he burrows deeper under the blankets. He kisses the tip of Alvin’s nose, rubs his cheek against its whiskers and finally falls asleep.  


	2. How to Prepare for Fierce Battles

Bae runs down the hill. The dry grass is warm against his feet, his eyes prickle, and his throat hurts. He reaches the road that turns into the main street of the village, and keeps on running. Ahead, he can see the thatched roofs of the first houses. He runs past old Erhard’s hut, past Ellis’s pigpen, past the smithy. A cart drives by him and lifts a cloud of yellow dust. It makes his eyes prickle even more. There are several women at the well, filling their buckets of water and chatting. Bae turns left, into the passage between the smithy and Madena’s house, crosses the courtyard of the smithy and hops over the fence into Madena’s yard. He runs along the furrow by the potatoes and the leeks, jumps over the fence at the back and ends up in the path that runs alongside the kitchen gardens. He stops by the fence at the back of their hut, half hidden by the blackcurrant bush. Mama is hanging clothes on the clothes line, her back to him. Bae slips under the lowest pole on their fence, crouches between the bush and the blackthorns, and wills his breath to calm down. Air is painful in his lungs, and his eyes still sting. He rubs them with both hands, feeling small and miserable. His whole chest hurts now. He can’t keep the tears at bay anymore. Sore, angry at himself, he bites his closed fist.  
And suddenly, he is not staring at leaves of the blackberry bush, but at Mama’s skirt. 

“What is it, Bae?” 

Mama’s wide eyes stare into his, as she crouches down. 

Bae is trembling all over, everything hurts. He casts himself against Mama with a sob. 

“Shhh, shhh, now,.” Mama gathers him in her arms, rubs his back. “It’s all right, son.” 

Bae’s feet leave the ground, and he is looking at the fence, and at the path he has run along, while Mama carries him across their kitchen garden. She shifts him on one of her hips, and opens their back door, carries him into the dark of their cottage. Bae is glad about it. The bright light of the sun is too much. The only thing he wants is to hide in a little nook in their house, and never to come out again. He clings to Mama’s neck, hides his face on her shoulder. 

Mama makes quiet, comforting noises as she sits on one of the stools by the fire, still rubbing his back. She turns him sideways so he sits on her lap, and rocks him, as she used to whenever Bae was little and woke up from a nightmare. She croons softly. The terrible hurt does not really give way, but slowly, Bae’s breaths become less ragged, his sobs turn into whimpers and he falls silent, as the tears stop. His nose is clogged and throbbing, his eyes are tired. He closes them, blows when he feels Mama putting a rag to his nose. Her cool hand caresses the hair away from his forehead. Bae welcomes the calm. 

She has stopped rocking, and they sit still for some time, Bae leaning on her shoulder, feeling Mama’s cool fingers carding through his hair. After a while, his mother’s voice rumbles through her chest. 

“What was it, son? What happened?” 

Bae takes a breath, but feels the air burning through his lungs. He can’t let the words out. Instead, he concentrates on the soothing rhythm of her fingers brushing his scalp. After a while, he feels he can manage it, and tries again. 

“They… they were calling me names…” 

Mama doesn’t ask who they are, she doesn’t ask what they called him. Bae is glad for that. He burns with shame remembering the words. They had been like stones cast at his back. But one of them mystifies him. It is a strange word he has not heard before. They sit still for a while, while curiosity bobs within Bae, and slowly rises to the surface. 

“ Mama?”

“Hm?” 

“What is a cur?”

Mama’s arms tighten around him. When she speaks, he can hear the tension coiled under her words. 

“A cur is a coward, Bae. Did they call you that?”

Bae nods. 

“They said I was a cur, like Papa,” he whispers, against her blouse. 

Her arms tighten even more, and suddenly she is lifting him from her lap, making him stand in front of her, her hands heavy on his shoulders. She looks into his eyes, and he feels she can look all the way inside him, into that part where he is shrinking back from the hurt. 

“You are not your father,” she says, very clearly. “You are not your father, Bae. You are not a coward.” 

She must be satisfied with what she sees inside him, because she smiles. Bae feels that part of him that had been tightly coiled unwind a little. He offers her a smile, albeit an unsteady one. 

Mama’s smile widens. She squeezes his shoulders once and nods. 

“I will teach you how to fight,” she says, and without having to shake on it, Bae knows it is a deal. 

 

In the following days, whenever Papa’s not home, Bae and Mama move the table to one side of their hut and practise fighting. She teaches him how to cover his face with his fists, how to find openings so he can land a hard blow. She shows him how to use a stick, how to block blows and how to strike. She warns him never to strike on the head, always on the back, or the stomach, or the shoulders. He doesn’t want to maim his playmates, she says, only to show them. She teaches him how a fistful of sand blinds and confuses, how an open palm to a nose stuns. She teaches him to choose his adversaries and his ground, how to gauge when someone will stand by the lines and cheer, when someone will be ready to join a fight. How to face bigger boys than him, but never more than two at a time. How to find escape routes, how to trip up the ones in pursuit of him, how to choose a shortcut. When to taunt and to sneer, how to fight with words. At the very last, she teaches him her two secret moves, the ones he only must use in an emergency: a heel to a knee forces the adversary down, a knee to a groin incapacitates for a while. 

Some weeks later, when Bae comes home with a black eye and a split lip, Papa fusses over him, makes him sit by the fire, puts a foul smelling poultice over his eye, and asks him relentlessly what has happened. Bae lets him fuss, holds the sticky mess in place, and keeps a stubborn silence. 

 

When he meets Mama’s eyes over the table and sees her lopsided smile, he sits a little straighter.


	3. Finding Mama

Bae sits by the table, looking at his entwined hands. He swings his legs to and fro, in a comfortable rhythm. It helps pass the time. He is hungry. It’s still light outside, but it is already the afternoon. He can tell because the rays of the sun slant to the right of their table now. During the morning, they slant to the left. When they leave the surface of the table, it will be evening, and it will be time for supper. Bae looks at the cauldron by the fireplace, with some apprehension. It is empty and cold. Mama wasn’t here at midday, when she peels the turnips, the carrots and the potatoes for their evening pottage. She wasn’t here to make porridge. There is no bread in the house; they have ran out of bread two days ago. Otherwise, Bae would have had something to eat. But he doesn’t know how to cook. Mama doesn’t let him near the fire, the cauldron or the kettle since he burnt his hand. 

Bae sighs and puts his hands under his thighs. He swings his feet a little bit more. He would have gone outside to play with Almaric or Lia, if Mama had given him permission when she went out. Maybe their mother would have called them by midday and would have given Bae a piece of their bread. But as soon as Papa left for the market and Bae finished his morning porridge, Mama put on her shawl and told him to wait for her. 

“I won’t be long,” she had said. “Wash the bowls, and sweep the hut. Pick up some leeks from the garden.” 

Bae had done all of those things, and later on he had played with Alvin, and later on he had rummaged through Mama’s chest. He had taken her fine ivory comb, and had a look at the carvings on the handle. Then he had discovered her wedding wreath, carefully wrapped in a fine cloth, at the bottom of the chest. He had carefully unwrapped the coloured ribbons, and had fingered the beautiful dry flowers. He had admired it for a while, but when a flower had lost part of its petals, he had wrapped the ribbons again, had covered the wreath and had put it at the bottom of the trunk, covering it with Mama’s other clothes. He had wandered off to papa’s corner of the hut, had sat on the stool by the spinning wheel and had stared into the basket where Papa keeps his spools of thread. Then he had laid on his bed, had counted the rafters on the roof. He thinks he slept for a while. Then he had wandered towards the table, and sat on one of the chairs, bored, waiting. 

The fire on the hearth sputters. It’s burning low now, and Bae should probably add a log so it doesn’t go out, but Mama has forbidden him to get too close to the hearth, and Papa has backed her up. But if the fire goes out and Mama has not come back yet, it will be chilly within their hut when Papa comes back. Bae thinks about it for a while. He will not be coming close to the fire, he will only cast another log upon it. He stands up, goes to the pile of wood they keep by the fire and chooses the longest piece. He carefully balances it on top of the others, and watches as the flames lap upon it. When it blackens and starts burning, he goes back to the table and sits down. He starts balancing his feet again. 

 

The door opens and Papa comes in. He is early from the market. 

“Milah! Bae! I’m home!” he calls out. His voice is cheerful, and the basket he is carrying is full of things. Normally, Bae would spring towards him right away, excited about the contents of the basket. But he is tired, and hungry, and there seems to be a weight inside of him that roots him to the chair. 

Papa closes the door with a practised kick from his bad leg and looks up. He catches sight of Bae and his smile falters. 

“Hey,” he breathes and gives a couple of steps into their hut. He leans heavily on his staff and he is slightly out of breath, as he is always when he has walked a long distance. His leg must be hurting. 

“Papa?” Bae greets him timidly. He is sorry for his papa. There’s no one home to offer him a chair by the fire, to prepare tea for him and give him a bowl of pottage. 

“Where’s Mama?” Papa asks, looking around. 

Bae sniffles. 

Papa looks at the floor, at the wall beside him. He purses his lips for a second. Then he starts talking.

“Well, she probably just... lost track of time.” 

Bae knows what Papa is trying to do. He is trying to sound nonchalant and upbeat, but his voice lacks the little spark it had when he came into the hut. 

Papa puts the basket down, and looks at Bae. He smiles. “Grab your cloak,” he says, with a quick movement of his hand. 

Bae stands up, gets his cloak. Papa’s hand lands on his shoulder as they make their way out of their hut. 

“We’ll find her.” 

Bae knows they will. He fears what will happen when they do. 

 

Mama is not at Madena’s house, nor at Alice’s. She is not by the well, and neither is she by the brook where women wash clothes. She has not been to the baker’s, or to Adelard’s to buy cheese. Papa and Bae pause outside Adelard’s hut. They look up and down the road. Papa breathes in, holds it for a while. 

“Let’s go to the harbour,” he sighs. 

Sometimes Mama likes to walk to the end of the breakwater and gaze over the sea. She sits there and one has to walk all the way to her before she hears one. It’s a long way, and papa’s hand is already heavy on Bae’s shoulder. 

They walk all the way to the harbour, and to the head of the breakwater, but Mama is not there. They go back towards their house, and suddenly Papa stops in front of the inn. There is raucous laughter and loud voices coming from the open windows. Papa squeezes Bae’s shoulder. 

“Stay here, son. I’ll go inside and take a look.” 

Bae leans against the wall of the inn, the palms of his hands against the warm, rough wooden planks, and kicks the road. He watches as the tip of his shoe lifts a small cloud of dust. He then listens to a high-pitched voice cheering. It’s Mama’s.  
The door of the inn opens and a patron stumbles out. Before it closes, Bae sneaks in. 

There is a lot of people in the inn, but Bae glimpses papa’s cloak a little bit ahead. He squeezes between two bulky men, following papa. Bae stops a few paces from him. 

“... time to go,” he hears papa’s voice speaking with some urgency. 

“Good,” says Mama. “So go.” She is mocking Papa. 

“Who’s this?” says another voice. 

“Ah, it’s no one...” answers Mama. “It’s just my husband.” 

There’s this thing about Mama’s tone. She sometimes speaks to Papa that way, but always inside their house, and always when they are fighting. It always makes Papa fall silent, so that Mama wins the argument, but it makes Bae’s insides twitch painfully. When he hears that pitch, he is ashamed of Mama. 

“Ah,” says the other voice. “He’s a tad taller than you described.” 

There’s a burst of laughter, and Bae sees how Papa shifts his weight, leans heavily on his staff. 

“Please,” Papa says out loud and the laughter ebbs. “You have responsibilities,” he continues in a lower voice. 

“You mean like being a man and fighting in the ogre wars?” Mama’s voice rings out loud and clear, and the people all around them fall silent. “Other wives became widows, while I became lashed to the village coward. I need a break.”

Bae cowers behind papa. Mama’s words are like sharp stones. 

“Run home, Rumple,” she continues in a false cheerfulness. “It’s what you’re good at.” 

When the last sentence cuts through the air, Bae realises that voice must not be Mama’s. He cannot recognise the cruel words or the lashing tone. Something stings painfully inside him, like his hand did once at the market, when he reached after a particularly juicy apple and the old lady at the stand slapped the back of his hand with a stick. 

“ Mama?” he calls. 

Papa turns toward him, his eyebrows raised, his forehead creased painfully, his eyes wet and wide. 

“Bae! You were supposed to wait outside, son.” 

Papa’s hand lands on his back, and Bae looks straight to the table. He has to find out who’s that who speaks in Mama’s voice and says such hurtful things. 

There she is, sitting at the table. Her eyes widen. She looks down and gathers her shawl, rises in a hurry. She comes around the table and puts her hands on his shoulders, and guides him out of the inn. Bae stumbles on the road. His eyes are full of tears, and he cannot see where he is going. Mama gathers him in her arms, and Bae blinks hard, the tears running down his cheeks. He casts his arms around Mama’s neck and looks over Mama’s shoulder, so she cannot see he is crying. One should never cry in front of those who have humiliated you, she has taught him. 

Papa is walking behind them, shoulders hunched, his bad leg rigid, head bowed. Bae scrubs his face in a hurry, before Papa looks up. Papa will be pained if he sees him cry. 

 

That night, he doesn’t pretend to be asleep, so he can listen to their argument. He buries his face under his pillow, puts his index fingers inside his ears, and scrunches his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Bae stares at the two pieces of bread in front of him.

His throat clenches painfully. He doesn’t think he can eat a bite.

Mama baked that bread the day after they found her in the inn. She woke up early, put the ingredients together, and was off to the baker’s to borrow his oven long before Bae got up. It was Bae’s favourite kind of bread, made with extra butter. Papa likes it too, but he had not complimented Mama on her cooking when he got a piece with his evening stew, not even when he had got an extra piece. He had just smiled and nodded, staring at the surface of the table, as he did when he was very tired. Bae had eaten his two pieces of bread that evening, had even got a third without having to ask, but he had not really enjoyed them. There had been something painful lodged within him, and he hadn’t been able to rejoice at the unexpected treat.

Now there is only a small piece left of the bread, and Mama is not there to make more. Not now, not ever. Bae thinks that, if he had been able to smile two nights ago, Mama might have stayed with them. Papa has told him Mama was taken by the pirates. She had not wanted to go with them. But Bae knows Papa is lying. He knows because that morning he has rooted through Mama’s chest, and has found out that her best skirt, and her best blouse, her favourite shawl, her earrings and her comb, are all missing. She must have packed them when she left. No one knew those were her favourite things. No one, besides Papa and Bae.

Papa sets down a mug of tea in front of him, goes to the hearth to fetch his own mug and sits down. He catches sight of Bae’s face, hunches a bit lower to catch Bae’s eyes, but Bae just ducks down. He cannot bear Papa’s kind, pained eyes right now. He feels as if he might shatter in small pieces.

“Oh, son,” Papa breathes. His voice is so, so sad.

Bae cringes.

Then Papa’s hand lies on his shoulder, and before Bae can resist, he is gently pulled forward, out of his chair, and encouraged to sit on Papa’s lap. It has been a very, very long time since Bae has sat on Papa’s lap, now that he is all grown up, but when he leans against Papa’s shoulder and smells the earthy smell of his tunic, something inside of him loosens. It is as if a dam bursts inside him, and Bae starts crying.

Papa rocks him, gently. His arms go around Bae and his big, calloused hand rubs up and down his arm, up and down, in a steady rhythm. The fire on the hearth sputters and crackles, and Bae’s tears subside. It is warm and safe within the circle of Papa’s arms.

 

 

*

 

Papa sets a full bowl in front of Bae. Bae stares at the goopy mass in front of him. It smells smoky and it has dark spots. It has burnt again, and Bae knows that if he dips his spoon in it, it will be too thick, and it will taste of nothing but, well, _burnt goop_. He is tired of eating burnt or half cooked things. Papa is rubbish at cooking, but Bae clenches his teeth and presses his lips together. He is not going to say a word of complaint.

Papa is trying his best, really. He wakes up earlier than he used to, goes to bed really late. All the time, he is doing something, keeping up with the chores of the house as well as his spinning. He is bound for the market in three weeks, and he still has got a lot of wool he hasn’t spun yet. Bae helps, but there is little he can do. He sweeps, washes the dishes, weeds the garden, peels the vegetables. He has tried to go to the well, but Papa won’t let him. The bucket is too heavy for a boy his age, he says. His back might bend under so much weight. Not that Papa fares much better with the full bucket and his walking stick, but that’s something Bae will never say out loud. Papa has, instead, taught him to card wool. They work together the whole morning, sometimes well into the afternoon.

There is little time to go out and play, now, but Papa always, always shoves him out of the door at some point and tells him to find Almaric or Lia, Beretrude or Ildemar, and run around for a bit. Or he will send Bae in errands and tell him to take his time. Bae can always play a round or two of hide-and-seek or ball tag. And whenever he comes back home, Papa is waiting for him, and asks, not about the errand, but who has won the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kudos and comments! This story is progressing slowly, but I have already planned it all... You can expect more chapters in the following weeks. Reviews and kudos are welcome!


	5. Cutting Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a new installment of the story. It has taken some time to write, but despair not! There are more chapters to come. As always, comments and reviews are always welcome. Your input helps a lot.
> 
> A special thanks for Luthien, a great beta-reader!

Bae’s hair is so long now that it gets into his eyes. He constantly brushes it off his forehead. He wishes he could tie it back, but it is not long enough yet to do that. It is annoying, especially when he is doing something that makes him bend down. Sweeping the hut, scrubbing the table or carding wool have all become hard now, because he cannot see what he is doing. 

He stops carding, lets go of one of the iron brushes, sweeps his hair away from his forehead, but when he grabs the brush, the hair falls back again. Bae sighs, looks up, and catches his father watching him intently with an amused smile. Bae blinks and feels his cheeks reddening at the same time. He stares at his hands, at the hearth, at the table. He doesn’t know where to look. Then there’s the low rumbling of Papa’s chuckle, the scraping of the stool’s legs against the dirt floor and the gentle tapping of his staff.

“Perhaps a haircut is in order? Hm?” 

Bae nods. Papa leans on his staff and reaches out for the shears that hang high upon the wall, out of Bae’s reach. 

“Come, son.” Papa waves his hand towards the back entrance. “It’s time to learn how to sharpen them.” 

Bae hops from his stool, excited. Papa has never let him come close to the shears before. They’re too sharp and too big, he has always said, and Bae will only get to handle them when he’s all grown up. Bae grins. He is already all grown up, then. Papa tells him to fetch a bowl of water. 

They go out of their cottage where their large whetting stone lies, by their back door. Papa sits down on the floor with a grunt, and Bae crouches beside him. Papa wets the stone. He presses the handle of the shears so they overlap, and holds the blade almost flat against the stone. With the one hand he holds the handle. The tips of the fingers of his other hand press the blade against the stone.

“Here,” he says. “You don’t want to have the blade completely flat, because you won’t sharpen it, but if you hold it too upright you will make it dull.” 

He scrapes the blade against the stone with easy, practised movements. 

“Now you,” he says, holding the shears out to Bae. 

Bae takes the shears, and sits in front of the whetting stone when Papa moves away. It’s hard to hold the handle closed with only one hand, and it’s not that easy to keep the shears at the right angle. Papa corrects him, several times. Bae’s arm starts to hurt from the effort, but he doesn’t stop until Papa tells him to. When Papa tries the edge with his fingertips and nods, Bae smiles. He jumps up and holds his hand to help Papa up. 

They go back into their hut, Papa tells Bae to wet his hair by the bucket. He drags the stool near the hearth and tells Bae to take off his tunic and his shirt, so they won’t get covered in hair. He doesn’t have to tell Bae all that, really. That was what they always did, whenever Mama cut Bae’s and Papa’s hair. When Papa opens Mama’s chest and starts rummaging in it, Bae bits his lip hard, bends over the bucket, and splashes water over his head, so he doesn’t have to look at Papa. He makes a bit of a mess, takes off his wet shirt and tunic, and sits on the stool. Cool droplets of water trickling down his back. He shivers. Then he feels Papa’s fingers combing through his hair. 

“Sit up a little straighter, son.” 

Bae complies and closes his eyes. Papa tugs on a lock of his hair and snips at it. Bae concentrates on the gentle tugs, on the nice swishing of the shears, on the feeling of Papa’s fingertips against his scalp. 

It takes a very long time for Papa to cut Bae’s hair. At the end, he is staring intently at Bae’s head, combing out first one side of it, then the other. There’s a deep line between his brows and a scowl drags down the side of his mouth. Bae tries not to squirm. At last, Papa sighs. 

“I think we’re finished son,” he says, but still looks worried. 

Papa’s gentle hands brush the hair off Bae’s back and arms, and Bae puts on his shirt and tunic. He can feel the air on his ears and the back of his neck, and he’s happy his hair does not get into his eyes anymore. 

“May I go out and play?” 

“Hm?” asks Papa. He’s hanging the shears back on the wall. 

“May I go out and play?” 

Papa nods absently and Bae darts out of their hut. 

He runs along the road, towards the stream. Right by the bridge, he spots Lia and Beretrude, casting small twigs into the current. Almaric and Ildemar must be somewhere else. They might be playing with Ildemar’s ball. Bae smiles. He can ask the girls where the boys are. When he reaches the head of the bridge, they look up, and there’s a look of horror in their faces. Their eyes become wide, their mouths open. It would be funny to watch them, if they were not staring at him. 

“Bae!” cries Lia. “What happened to you?” 

Bae frowns. 

“Nothing?” he ventures. 

“But... but... your hair!” cries Lia again, and then Beretrude starts laughing. 

His cheeks burning, Bae turns around, feels his head. There are irregular tufts of hair here and there. He starts walking away, looking at the ground. As soon as he is out of the girls’ sight, he will start running back home. 

And then a small, sweaty hand grabs his, and Lia is walking by his side. 

“Come,” she says. “Let’s go to my house. Mama will cut your hair for you, and it will be better.”

Ashamed, Bae tugs to free his hand, but Beretrude grabs his other hand, and they lead him between them. 

That evening, Lia’s and Almaric’s mother comes to their hut. She has been dropping by lately, with a loaf of bread or some advice about householding. She asks Papa if he has a wooden bowl. When he provides her with one she finds satisfactory, she puts it upside down on Bae’s head. 

“Here,” she says. “Next time you must only cut the hair that juts under the edge of the bowl.” 

Papa listens to her attentively, asks a couple of questions and offers her tea. When she goes home, he casts a sheepish look at Bae, lowers one of the baskets that hang from the rafters and gives Bae a small bag. Bae peeks inside and discovers dried fruit. Bae loves dried fruit. He digs his fingers into the bag and pops the first piece into his mouth. After munching on the first two pieces, he offers one to Papa. He watches as Papa’s long fingers dig into the bag, and an idea comes to mind. 

“Papa?”

“Hmmm?”

“You also need a haircut.” 

Papa looks up and then a slow smile makes the corners of his eyes cringe. 

“You think so, son?” 

Bae nods resolutely. He snickers when his father laughs out loud.


	6. To the Market

“Waken up, son.” 

As soon as Papa’s hand touches his shoulder, Bae sits up. He has gone from deep sleep to completely awake in a matter of seconds. When the blankets fall from his chest, Bae shivers. It is dark in their hut, and it is cold, although Papa has already lit the fire. It is really, really early. Bae has never woken up this early, but he doesn’t mind. He puts his tunic on and hops from the bed to put on his breeches. He is so excited. Today he is going with Papa to the market for the first time. 

Papa is scooping up two bowls of porridge when Bae puts his shoes on. Bae sits at the table and attacks breakfast, while Papa sets a cup of tea in front of him. He has to wait for Papa to finish his breakfast before he can wash Papa’s cup and bowl. He watches as Papa puts out the fire and buries the embers deep in the hearth. Then he ties a bundle on his back, and Bae turns around dutifully so Papa can tie a smaller bundle on his own back. He is really happy that Madena, Alice and Lia’s mother have all told Papa they cannot watch over Bae, no matter how hard Papa has pleaded with them. Now Bae can travel as a grown up, and see a real town. Papa grabs his staff, motions for them to go out of the house, and they are on their way. 

They walk along the main road, climb the hills on the northern side of their village. The seagulls cry behind them. They reach the forest with the first lights of dawn. It is cool and dark under the big trees, and Bae tries not to cringe at the hooting of an owl and the rustling of the branches. Still, it is a comfort to feel Papa’s hand on the nape of his neck as they walk. They walk, and they walk, and they walk. It is cool in the forest. The rays of the sun light patches of the underbrush with a golden hue. Droplets of dew sparkle like gems. 

They walk, and they walk. The road is wide and level under their feet. From time to time, a loaded cart drives past them. Then the trees start to get smaller and smaller. There comes a bend on the road, and Papa stops. There are no more trees, and they can see a long way into the distance. They are standing on a big hill, and they can look over the valley below. At some distance, there is a town. A huge town, surrounded by a very big wall. There are towers on each corner of the wall, and banners hanging from them. Papa’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“There you are, son. Treherne.” 

Bae stares, open mouthed. Their village does not have such high walls, such big towers. Papa points at the highest. 

“That is the castle,” he says, and then he points at a tower towards the right. “That is the watch tower.” His hand goes towards the centre of the wall. “And that is the town’s main gate.”

It is a huge doorway carved into the walls of the town, flanked by two squat, rounded towers. Bae has never seen anything like that before. He shifts the weight of the bundle on his shoulders, turns towards the road again. But Papa’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Nah, nah, nah,” he says, pointing a finger at Bae’s nose. “It’s a long way down. First, we rest and have something to eat.” 

Bae feels like stomping down his foot. 

“But Papa...” he protests. “We’re so close already...” 

“Do not ‘but Papa’ me, boy,” his father answers in a deeper voice that makes clear he will not have any argument. “It looks close, but it is still far away. We eat, we rest, then we go on our way. We’ll be there by noon, anyway. No reason to wear ourselves out.” 

Papa points at a group of rocks by the road. Bae sits on one of them. They are flat and warm, and they overlook the town. He can watch the banners and the walls while they eat. It’s the most fantastic view he has seen in his life. 

Papa sits on another rock, and rummages through his travelling sack. He takes out two bundles and a waterskin. He uncorks the waterskin and gives it to Bae. The water is cool, soothing. Bae drinks in long gulps. He hadn’t noticed he was so thirsty. Papa’s hand appears on top of his and gently lowers the waterskin.

“Easy, son. You’ll get sick if you drink too much at a time.” 

Bae obeys, a little bit ashamed. He has drunk a third of what the waterskin holds, and that’s the only water they will both have until they reach the town. He doesn’t even know if that’s the only water they will have all day long, or whether they will be allowed to refill their waterskin in the communal wells. He takes the piece of bread and cheese his father hands him and watches as Papa drinks a couple of mouthfuls, stoppers the waterskin and puts it back in his travelling sack. They eat slowly, enjoying the view and the warmth of the sun. 

When Papa brushes the crumbs off his tunic and grabs his walking stick, Bae stands up. He would like to hop to his feet, but he is a little bit tired, already. 

They walk, and they walk, and they walk. The sun is already high in the sky. Bae feels it burning the back of his neck. Papa tugs the hood of Bae’s cloak free from the fastenings of the bundle and covers Bae’s neck with it. 

They walk. The air is warm, and smells of dried grass and ripe wheat. There are more wagons driving past them, now. They rise large clouds of dust. Soon, they are covered with it, earthen faces and sandy clothes, so when they catch up with some peasants guiding a herd of goats along the road, Bae is not concerned about dust anymore. Papa greets the peasants and Bae recognises the father and two sons from a farm not a mile from their village. Mama had forbidden him to go close to that farm. None of the peasants answers Papa’s greeting. The father looks at them long and hard, the two sons cast a sidelong look at them from under the brim of their hats. Papa hurries along. They overtake the herd. And then, a clump of dried mud lands on Papa’s back. It breaks in small pieces and falls down, leaving a yellowish cloud on Papa’s cloak. Bae turns around, red in the face, ready to yell at the peasants, but Papa’s hand lands hard on his shoulder, and makes him turn around again. 

“Hush, boy,” he says, sharply. 

Bae stumbles a little bit, his body still wanting to go in the opposite direction. He looks up at his father, a protest ready on his lips. Papa is looking straight ahead, his jaw tightly clenched. A muscle throbs in his neck. Bae falls silent and hurries along. Soon, they have left the herd behind. Papa is breathing heavily. Bae looks back, slows his pace a little. He opens his mouth, looks at Papa, who is still staring straight ahead, and closes it. Now is no time for questions.

Eventually, they reach the gates of the town, the sun high in the sky. Bae thinks it must be noon already. His feet hurt, the top of his head is warm from the sun, and he is thirsty, but when they cross the bridge and go under the arch of the gate, he forgets all his troubles. The wooden doors are huge. The walls are massive, made of big, square stones. The guards stand on each side of the entrance, their coats of mail shining, a long spear in their hands, their swords hanging from their belts. Bae stares and stumbles. Papa steadies him. A man going in the opposite direction bumps against Bae, and Bae grabs Papa’s hand, suddenly aware of how many people are entering the town. He fears he might be pushed away from Papa. 

They emerge on the other side of the walls, and Bae gapes again. The houses are made of stone and wood, and they are three storeys high. Not a single house in their village is more than one storey, though they all have lofts for storage. These houses, they are grand. The second storey, built of wood, projects a little bit over the first one; the third, over the second. Bae cranes his neck to look at them, feels lightheaded. It is as if the houses are moving closer, and might fall on their heads. He looks down and walks closer to Papa, a bit short of breath. He tries to breathe deeper. The people bustle about, calling to each other on the street, minding their own business. No one seems concerned. There are stores opening onto the street. He sees a cobbler’s store, all kinds of pots and pans and cauldrons hanging from the lintel and the jambs of the door. There’s a carpenter’s right beside it, stools and chairs and tables lined against the walls and wooden shavings decking the floor. And then there’s another store, one that sells clothes. Bae stares and stares, and realises he is standing still when Papa tugs at his hand. 

“Come on, son,” says Papa. “It isn’t much further ahead.” 

They come to an open space, full of stands and people milling about. It’s like their marketplace, but much, much bigger. There are pens with cows and horses, goats and sheep. There are stalls with fruits and vegetables, stalls with piles of cages with all kinds of fowl, stalls with cheese and meat, bread and pastries, stalls that sell warm food. Bae’s mouth waters, but he follows Papa. They cross the marketplace, and enter another street. This one is darker, narrower than the one they have left behind. They walk along smaller, dingier stores. They come to the corner, Papa turns left, and walks further down an alley. At the end of the alley, there is a big building with a wooden door. A stone bench is attached to the wall. Papa makes Bae sit on the stone bench, unties the pack from his back, and crouches down with a slight grimace. 

“I’m going to sell our thread,” he says pointing at the door. “You stay here for a while. Don’t walk away. All right?”

Bae nods. Papa looks hard into his face, and then takes the waterskin out of his travelling bag. He uncorks it and gives it to Bae. 

Bae stares at it. He feels a little bit sick. He doesn’t think he can drink. 

“Drink, son. You’ll feel better,” Papa urges him. 

Bae takes the waterskin to his mouth and has a mouthful of lukewarm water. It tastes really good. He drinks another mouthful, and another. Then he gives the waterskin to his father. Papa pours some of the water onto his open palm and rubs it over Bae’s forehead. He then pours some more water and cards his fingers through Bae’s hair. The coolness of the water is soothing, and Bae feels much, much better. Papa stands up, sits beside Bae, and rubs his back. Bae sighs, puts his elbows on his knees, lets his head hang low. After a few minutes, he is feeling better. 

“All right, son?” 

Bae nods, but Papa is still tracing soothing circles on his back. Bae straightens, offers his father a smile. 

“I’m fine, Papa,” he says, forcefully. “Go.”

Papa looks at him with a small, amused smile that crooks one side of his mouth. 

“Sure?” he asks. 

Bae bats his father’s knee with his open hand. 

“Yes. Go.” 

“I won’t be long. Then we can eat. I know a place in the market that makes a great stew,” Papa tells him. 

“Go,” Bae insists, ashamed of his weakness. 

“All right.” Papa takes his staff, rises, gathers Bae’s bundle in his arm. 

He knocks at the door, and looks at Bae, as if to say something, when the door opens. A voice barks something and Papa goes inside. 

Bae puts his hands under his thighs and stares at the alley ahead. It is cool here, in the shadow of the houses. A woman opens a window, shakes an eiderdown and hangs it on the windowsill. A girl with a basket goes out of one of the houses and heads down the alley. A small boy comes out of one of the houses and stares at Bae, a finger stuck in his mouth. Bae smiles, pulls a face, and the boy disappears inside. Shortly afterwards, his tousled head peeks from the doorjamb. Bae pulls another face, and the head disappears. 

They repeat their game until Papa comes out, without his bundles of yarn. He has a smug, satisfied air about him when he sits beside Bae, on the stone bench. He is holding a leather pouch. He tousles Bae’s hair with his free hand and smiles down at him. He opens the pouch. Bae peeks inside. There is a handful of silver coins. Bae has never seen so much money at once. Papa opens his travelling sack, takes out a piece of cloth, drops some of the coins in it, and ties it up. He puts the pouch in his travelling sack, and then he bends down, as if scratching his leg. With a swift movement, he tucks the bundle of coins inside the cloth that ties Bae’s straw shoes to his ankle. Then he straightens, grabs his staff, swings his travelling sack over one of his shoulders and stands up. 

“Come along, son.” 

Bae gapes up at him. Papa extends his free hand.

“Aren’t you hungry?” 

Bae wants to protest, but catches Papa’s playful wink, and suddenly understands. The coins will be safest there. He feels a surge of pride, grabs Papa’s hand and stands up. 

They retrace their steps back to the marketplace. 

The stew is as rich as Papa has said. It has plenty of meat amidst the potatoes and vegetables, in a thick, creamy sauce. Bae uses his bread to clean the bowl, licks his fingers while Papa watches him, an amused little grin on his face. He then sniffs at the goblet that has been placed in front of him. It’s cider. A grown-up drink. His has been watered-down. Papa asked for a half-and-half, and Bae knows that it means half of the goblet will be water. Papa has already drunk a couple of mouthfuls of his, and looks comfortable and at peace. He no longer buzzes with the energy of a deal well-done. Bae takes a careful sip, and is surprised to feel the sharp tang on his tongue. At the same time, the drink is cool, and has the fresh taste of apples. He takes a mouthful, rolls it over his tongue, gulps it down. When he looks up, he sees Papa watching him carefully. 

“Do you like it, son?”

Bae nods, takes another mouthful. Here he is, at the market, keeping his father’s coin and having a drink, like a grown up. Something stirs and bubbles inside him. He thinks it must be pride. 

They spend the next two hours wandering about in the marketplace. Everything is so wonderful and exciting that Bae cannot keep his mouth shut. He keeps tugging at Papa’s sleeve, and pointing towards the different stalls, the wonderful things on sale. They linger at some of the stalls, and Papa explains what are some of the strange things that Bae has never seen. There are small glass vials with all kinds of potions in one stall; books on another. 

They also buy things: needles, seeds, a cloak for Bae, shoes for Papa. Bae cannot stop himself from being utterly proud when Papa takes out his coins and pays for their purchases. 

They even go into an apothecary and buy a salve for Papa’s leg, and a powder against fevers. They also buy sausages and dry meat, honey and jam. And they stop for a heartbeat by the dried-fruit stall, and Papa buys a small packet for Bae. He gives it to Bae, tells him to eat it right away. Bae hesitates for a second, opens the package and is drawn to the next stall.   
When he looks back, he catches sight of Papa. He is hurrying to put something into his travelling sack, the owner of the dried fruit stall looking at him with a smile, and counting his money. Bae looks down, with a little smile. He now knows that in a week or two, when he has worked hard or done his chores on time, there will be another package of dried fruit waiting for him.


	7. And Back Again

It is late in the afternoon and Bae is sitting by the roadside. He is tired and lightheaded. He is also angry at himself. They left the town not long ago, but before they'd gone far down the road, he felt his feet getting heavier and heavier and his head started to ache. Bae tried to force his body to keep up with Papa’s pace, which wasn’t that fast, anyway, but after a little while, the earth underneath his feet started to sway. Papa noticed, made him sit down and drink a little bit of water and cooled down the back of his neck. Then he decided to convince one of the cart drivers leaving town to give Bae a ride.

He has been trying to do so for a while now. Most of the men cast a look at Papa’s staff and spur on their horses. One or two have slowed down their carts, listened to Papa, looked at Bae and continued without a second glance. Papa has been walking up and down the road, his traveling bag by his side, their purchases tied to his back, trying to hail one of the many carts that leave town, and is now walking with a heavy limp. His face is covered in dust. There are two deep lines between his brows. He comes closer and goes away, comes closer and goes away, talking to the men that drive the carts.   
Bae cannot listen to what he is saying. He doesn’t need to, anyway. He can see Papa’s worried glances at him, his hand pointing towards him and his raised eyebrows. He can guess Papa’s words. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like that Papa feels he has to plead with the drivers to give him a ride. But he has tried to walk, and has only succeeded in standing up for a few seconds before he has started seeing everything in a greenish tint, and has been forced to sit down, under the force of Papa’s scowl. 

Now, Papa is coming close again, walking alongside another cart. The man driving this one is beefy and huge. He has a grey beard and a deep frown. He looked at Bae when Papa first got close to him, but is now staring ahead. At any minute, he will urge his horse on, and will overtake them in a cloud of dust. Papa is hurrying alongside the cart, talking urgently. 

“... pay you. I have good coin. It’s just my boy you’ll carry. He is a small lad. Weighs almost nothing...” 

The driver looks at Papa, then back at the road. 

“I’ll walk all the way. I won’t slow you down. I’ve made this trip many times, you see, but my lad...” 

The reins on the back of the horse are slack, and the animal slows down. Now they have almost reached Bae. The driver looks at Papa once again, doubtfully, and Papa redoubles his efforts. 

“I won’t walk beside you. I’ll be a few paces behind you. It’s just my boy you’ll carry. He weighs almost nothing, sir... And I will pay, I have good coin, honestly.” 

Bae cringes at Papa calling the driver “sir”. Or perhaps he cringes because Papa feels the need to imply no one will notice the driver will be doing him, a cripple, a favour. Bae feels sicker now. When the driver goes past them, he will stand up and tell Papa he can continue. He will walk all the way back to their village. He’ll crawl, if the has to, no matter if he faints trying. Papa shouldn’t have to beg. 

“Here, let me show you,” says Papa, putting two fingers inside the leather pouch. But he hasn’t retrieved his money when the driver pulls on the reins and comes to a stop. He gives a sharp nod to Bae. 

“Get on the back, lad,” he says. 

Bae gets to his feet, and feels one of Papa’s hands on his back, giving him an encouraging push. 

“Thank you, thank you so much,” Papa breathes. He goes along with Bae, helps him climb on the back, and hurries towards the bundle of purchases that was at Bae’s feet. He swings the bundle on his back. 

“Thank you, sir. You go along, now. I’ll follow.” 

Bae waits for the driver to slap the reins over the back of the horse and grabs the side of the cart to steady himself, but nothing happens. The driver stares hard at Papa. 

“You’re not going to carry all that on your back, are you?” The sentence is formulated as a question, but the tone is that of an affirmation. “The cart is almost empty. Put it on the back.” 

Papa stands still, blinks. The driver just looks at him, calmly. It takes Papa a few seconds to react. 

“Thank... thank you.” 

He unties both bundles from his back and casts them over the side of the cart. He grabs his walking stick a little higher, with an open palm signs the driver he can continue. The driver contemplates him, thoughtfully, not giving the slightest sign he intends to make his horse move. Papa looks down, blinks hard in confusion. 

“Climb up,” says the driver with a nod towards the side of the seat he’s sitting in. 

Papa looks up, blinks harder. 

“Wha... What?” He asks. 

The driver nods again. 

“Come on. I find myself in need of company.”

Papa bites his lower lip. His chin is trembling.

“But you can’t... Can’t be serious,” he protests. 

“I’m very serious,” counters the driver.

Bae feels his throat clench painfully. 

Papa hurries around the cart, puts his staff on the back and grabs the side of the seat to climb up. The driver offers him a hand, pulls him up on the front seat. Papa looks at the driver as if he doesn’t believe he is there. The driver looks ahead, urges his horse on, and they go on their way. Bae grabs the side of the cart, feeling slightly dizzy again. He breathes in, deeply, closes his eyes, sways to the rhythm of the cart. 

“You’d better tell your lad to lie down, before he falls off.” 

The driver’s deep, rumbling voice wakes him. Bae hadn’t noticed he had been nodding off. 

“Bae. Come on, son. You can lay your head here.” 

Bae looks back. Papa has turned around on the seat and is patting the bundles that hold their purchases. Bae scoots back, lies down on his side. Papa’s fingers brush his hair, and Bae relaxes. The bottom of the wagon is hard, but his head lies on something soft (maybe his new cloak), and the swaying motion of the wagon is lulling.

“How old is he?” comes the rumbling voice of the driver. 

“He’s nine. It’s the first time he’s come to the market.” 

“It’s quite a distance for such a young lad,” comments the driver in a lower voice. 

“Aye,” Papa’s voice has also gone down a notch. “I didn’t have anyone to leave him with...” he trails off. 

The driver hums in assent and they both fall silent. 

Bae is once again aware of the rumbling of the cart, the tinkling of the horse’s hooves. He dozes, sometimes waking up at unexpected noises: a birdcall, a woman’s voice calling on someone on the road, his father’s and the driver’s voices. 

“Still a long walk...” 

“Aye...” 

Bae listens. Listens to the rumbling of the wheels. 

“Almost never come this way...” 

Bae goes under the soothing rhythm of the horse’s hooves. 

“... was my cousin. He was also drafted to the wars...”

“Did he fare well?” 

“... came back without a hand. He was frightened. Not that I blamed him” 

Papa draws in a sharp breath, and Bae wakens up a little bit, sensing the dread, the tension he’s so familiar with, but has never given words to. Then the tinkling of the harnesses lulls him to sleep again. He wakes up to the voice of the driver. 

“You can’t stay in a place you can’t stand.”

“... not so bad, anyway.” 

Bae goes under again. A lifetime later, Papa’s hand is shaking his shoulder. 

“Waken up, son. We’re home, Bae.” 

Bae sits up, rubs his eyes. 

The voice of the driver wakes him all the way. 

“I won’t take your money, Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Please, you’ve been so kind...” 

“I’m glad for the company. Now take care of your boy.”

There’s a brief silence, and Bae starts climbing off the cart. Suddenly, Papa appears at the back. Bae pushes their bundles towards the back and Papa unloads them. He has let his hair fall across his face, and in the twilight Bae cannot see Papa’s expression clearly. 

Papa gets both bundles on his back, pushes Bae towards the front of the cart. 

“Say thank you, Bae.”

“Thank you,” Bae pipes up. 

“Thank you, Othbert,” Papa says. His voice rings clear and loud in the stillness of the evening. 

“You’re welcome, Rumpelstiltskin. May we meet again.” 

Papa looks up, so the hair falls off his face. His eyes are bright, but there’s a calmness washing over his features Bae has not seen in a long time.

Then the driver slaps the reins and the horse tugs forward. When he leaves in a cloud of dust, Bae realises they’re in front of their house. Papa’s hand lands on the nape of his neck.

“Come on, son. Let’s have some bread, and tea, and then to bed.” 

The prospect sounds heavenly. Bae smothers a yawn and follows his father inside their house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to Luthien for her corrections and comments. You're a great beta-reader!
> 
> Reviews make my day!


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